It’s 11:25 a.m. and I’m sitting on and suffocating Bernie. I’m wearing a black rubber skirt that looks like a ballerina’s tutu and in my hands are ten pence coins with which I’m rapidly flicking his nipples. In thirty-six seconds, by a matter of inches, I will suddenly lift from my sitting position which releases the seal from my rubber clad crotch, and listen to his fitful gasps for air. Together with Mozart’s piano concerto in E flat, these are the sounds that fill the tiny room. And today I can add the maniacal whine of a remote-controlled toy car and the shouting of boys in an otherwise sleepy suburban street. I can see my reflection in a wall of mirrors. There’s a pair of scissors by my left and a clock with the seconds hand to my right.

The unknown is an instrument of control full of endless possibilities—which is half the reason I blindfold Bernie. Of course he knows what’s coming, but he never knows exactly when it’s coming. There’s no time for him to prepare, to fill his lungs when suddenly I shift from a squat position to my full weight on his mouth and nose. Bernie has never dictated my style, nor has he ever acknowledged its effectiveness. It’s me that imagines the unknown makes suffocation more frightening and exciting.

"A wet, hot paean to the infinite charms of dominant women, as told by some of the best erotic writers working today."
-- Dr. Gloria Brame, sex therapist, blogger, and author of Come Hither: A Commonsense Guide to Kinky Sex